


Snapshots

by Schattenmalerin



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, rating will varying and definitely go up (but will be mentioned individually before every oneshot), tags and pairings will be added with each new oneshot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16786147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattenmalerin/pseuds/Schattenmalerin
Summary: A Collection of Oneshots with different pairings, topics and ratings.Newest Chapter: Gavin Reed/RK900 resp. Gavin Reed/Connor





	1. Ocean Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there :)  
> This is a translation of my own work (thought maybe some of you might be interested in some oneshots) which is written for a challenge, in which you choose a number from 1-200 and get a word back as inspiration.  
> The only condition is that the word has to be in the first and the last sentence of the OS (though the word can be changed a bit as long as it is has the same meaning).
> 
> So there are going to be Oneshots of different length, with different pairings and different topics (okay, mostly it will be about Connor (or Connor/?), I guess, 'cause why not, he's awesome).

**Given Word:** Auge, in english: Eye (Nr. 4)  
**Other Inspiration:[Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viimfQi_pUw)**  
**Pairing:** Connor/RK900 (Nines)  
**Rating:** General Audiences  
**Time Lapse:** After the successful revolution; Connor and RK900 are both working for the DPD  
**Summary:** Connor has a rather urgent problem with Nines' eyes  
**Miscellaneous:** POV Connor  
**Trigger warning:** -

  
**_Ocean Eyes_ **

Your eyes are to blame.  
All my processors are defective and your eyes are responsible for it.

Responsible for the way I gaps for breath, even if I clearly don't need air to function.

Responsible for the overheating of my system, for the malfunction of my temperature regulator as I desperately call it up for help, for the frightening warmth spreading from my core, flooding through my wires, occupying my whole body and leaving me back overwhelmed.

Responsible for my pump regulator working way too fast, pumping the blue thirium way too hard through my body, making me feel dizzy.

Responsible for my legs feeling faulty, because they don't belong to me anymore when I'm standing close to you. I want to animate them to move, but they don't listen to my orders. They remain right where they are, next to you, in front of you, close to you as if there was a virus circulating through them, keeping me from distancing myself from you. A virus vanishing into thin air as soon as you walk away, pulling your inscrutable glance away from me and continuing with your work.

My voice is also defective. It shakes and is rough - as if I have a bad cold, though this is a human illness, an illness, I can't infect myself with - sounds strained every time you look down at me with this straightforward look, asking me something, ordering me to do something for you or wanting to go over the results of a current case.  
My vocabulary is, too, because I can't get out a single decent, complete sentence when I'm with you. I stutter, a human reaction, and you are amused by it for you're giving me the ghost of a smile, a mixture of taunt, amusement and softness that seems so contrary, but matches you just perfectly.  
You leave me behind with that unbearable heat rising up in my cheeks and with my simulated heart pounding too hard and I fear my system could hang, could overheat, deactivate itself and extinguish me forever.

I begin to avoid you.  
A single day, a second day, a week.  
My processors seem to recuperate, seem to work without problems again.  
I should be happy about it, relieved.  
I am not, because although my system is back in a normal state, I feel strangely … flawed, defective. Not whole, not complete. Empty. As if an important part was taken away from me and now I'm left behind without it.  
I know this thought is irrational, illogical, because several system maintenances and searches for errors affirm me that all my primary and secondary processors are existing and fully functional.  
I persuade myself of only imagining the emptiness, the incompleteness inside me - a side effect of becoming a deviant, I tell myself - while continuously, constantly, almost obsessively running a system maintenance.  
The results are all the same: My processors are functioning without problems. The feeling of emptiness stays.

It goes so far that my working ability is suffering under it.  
I can't concentrate anymore. I hear orders around me, but I don't comprehend them: Somewhere Hank murmuring something about the victim, somewhere Detective Reed allowing himself an inappropriate joke, somewhere his partner Christ looking for the murder weapon, somewhere Officer Collins reading facts of the case from his clipboard.

And in the middle: You. With those blue eyes, which are scanning the room and the bodies, professional and unfazed, analyzing the murder weapon, reconstruction the murder scene.

And in the middle: Me. With my processors immediately going crazy, glitching, behaving defective, as if the virus had only slept and is reawakened once more by your sight.

And in the middle: You and me. How our eyes meet, your blue ones staring into mine with a questioning, skeptical, almost concerned expression in them and I can't stand your gaze any longer, I rush out of the room to the toilets, let the door fall close behind me, bracing myself on the sink with my hands, eyes looking tortured into the mirror in front of me.

The same brown hair, the same striking facial features, the same nose form, the same curved lips, the same beauty marks, the same skin color.  
"But not the eyes," I whisper tormented, my own brown eyes staring back at me through the mirror.  
"Why not those goddamn eyes?!" and it sounds desperate, as if I would break down almost any second, my LED blinking in a warning and threatening red.  
Why? Why did they have to give you different eyes? Why this blue, this deep blue in which I sink into, in which I'm drowning, helpless, powerless. Which captivates me despite fighting against the urge, which cut right through me, bringing my whole system to a halt. Which confuses and overwhelms me.  
"Why…?"

Startled by the door being opened behind me I take a look through the mirror to identify the intruder - only to lower my gaze immediately as if I burned myself.  
Of course it has to be you following me.

"Is something wrong?"  
By rA9, this voice. So similar to my own and still it manages to awake a strange tingle inside me. How is that even possible?  
"You seemed quite distracted. Is there a problem I should know about, Connor?"

I hear footsteps behind me, feeling how you step closer toward me, and I want to retreat further, but I'm already leaning against the sink and before I even can react, I feel your body behind me, towering over me, looking over my shoulder and observing my face through the mirror, analyzing me and there is no way you don't notice the red LED or the bluish blush that had crept up my cheeks the moment you positioned yourself behind me.

"E-everything okay." I adjust my tie in an attempt to suppress my sudden nervousness, to cover up the fact that my tone is far from convincing, but it is a simple task for you to see right through me.

"Connor, look at me," commanding, directly on my ear and I notice my temperature regulator sending confusing messages to my main processor, startled at how my system can feel both hot and cold at the same time.  
I refuse to make eye contact - too terrifying is the thought of meeting your eyes - hoping you will give in, not insist, just leave the room again. What does it matter to you anyway? Don't you have a crime scene to investigate?

But you are not yielding under my refusing behavior, you don't go away, don't let me be by myself and I finally succumb, raising my gaze as you breathe another dark, commanding "Look at me" in my ear, because I know, you won't stop until I follow your order and then I look up and meet your blue eyes, which leave me completely vulnerable and without any rational thought and suddenly it is all too much. Suddenly it doesn't matter anymore.

"You," it is nothing more than a weak whisper, a quiet and breathy confession which neither you nor me understand in its entirety.

"Excuse me, I can't quite comprehe-"

"You are my problem," I interrupt you loudly, forcing myself to stand your confused look and it is so damn hard not to loose my ability to talk, but I pull myself together and hiss over the mirror: "You are my damn problem! You and your … those eyes. You and the way you look at me, the way my entire system, all my programs deactivate themselves when I stare into your eyes. How I'm not capable of doing anything against it, how I can't think straight while meeting your eyes or being close to you, fuck," I breathe heavily, not even noticing how I talked myself into a rage, how I turned around to you, how you stumbled back startled, staring back at me in such an untypical way, mouth opened despite no words leaving your lips.  
Speechless.

"That scares the hell out of me," and suddenly I feel really tired, exhausted, worn out. Empty, but not in the incomplete, but a rather calming way. It's out, all the bottled-up thoughts are out and I know I'll understand in the next ten minutes that I probably made a huge mistake, but right now in this moment it feels right. As if I was being freed from a burden I didn't even know I was carrying around with me.

You still haven't find any words to say, just standing there, ocean eyes inscrutable and if I wouldn't be so contained with those confusing feelings inside me I might have registered your own LED, blinking in the same red tone as my own.

"There's your answer," I murmur almost emotionless, averting your eyes again, "Then you can go back to your crime scene and leave me alone again."

I hear your footsteps on the floor, but despite my expectation they don't move away from me.No, you walk up to me again, coming closer to me and before I can comprehend the situation you come to a halt right in front of me.  
Close. Too close, I can see your black, elegant shoes while staring continuously down to the floor.

"Connor …" Your tone has changed, no longer commanding, rough or dark, but quiet, softy whispered … why?  
It makes me swallow hard, my thirium pump working under high pressure.  
Why? Why do you have to do this to me? Why can't you just leave me alone? Do you have to abuse my weakness, have to demonstr-  
A surprised gasp leaves my mouth as two fingers laid themselves under my chin, directing my face up a bit, leaving me no other choice than to meet your eyes once more.  
You are too close. I can notice the small, gray shades in your blue eyes. It's not fair.  
I want to pull away from your grip, want to move my head away from you, but before I can find enough discipline to execute my plan, you begin to speak again.

"You are not the only one feeling this way."  
It's nothing more than a whisper, soft and breathy words against my lips, still it manages to paralyze my whole body.  
And you leave me no time to retort anything, react in any way, because your fingers are already guiding my face toward your own while you lean down a bit and I stare overwhelmed at your closed eye lids, right before you connect your lips with mine, carefully, gently, as if you are fearing to startle and scare me away. To loose me.

And then, automatically and with such an easiness to it, I close my own eyes, stop to think and begin to feel.


	2. Ways To Forget You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin searches and finds ways to suppress the pain and grief - and looses himself in a destructive downward spiral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is up. Sorry it took so long to write (or rather translate).  
> I'm not completely content with the translation (somehow it sounds way better in the original language, but nonetheless have fun with it).

**Given Word** : Suche, in english: Search (Nr. 7)  
**Other Inspiration** : -  
**Pairing** : Gavin Reed/RK900 resp. Gavin Reed/Connor  
**Rating** : Explicit  
**Time Lapse** : Several years after the successful revolution  
**Summary** : Gavin searches and finds ways to suppress the pain and grief - and looses himself in a destructive downward spiral  
**Miscellaneous** : POV Gavin; darkRK900 somehow; bottomGavin  
**Trigger warning** : unhealthy dealing with loss, emotional pain, alcohol abuse (a little bit), explicit sexscene, consensual sex (although it's debatable if Gavin is emotionally stable enough to make decisions)

**_Ways To Forget You_ **

I search for ways to forget you.  
Ways not to think of you every day, every hour, every damn second, not to let this pain that seem to eat me up from inside gain the upper hand of me.  
Not to live in the past.

***

I sit in shabby bars at half-full counters and stare into my half-empty glass, drowning in the brew that leaves a bitter aftertaste, yet the burning in my throat, in my stomach is always better than the consuming feeling of pain in my heart. I sedate myself, bit by bit, until I feel nothing else than my bloody, aching hand knuckles meeting resistance, nothing else than the hard counter punch that makes my head fly to the side, makes me taste the metallic flavor in my mouth. Another blow, this time to my stomach and the alcohol rebels inside me and I vomit stertorously, hearing disgusted tangle of voices and then there are hands pulling me up and dragging me out of the bar as I try to fight back, weak and desperate.  
The cold night air beats around my ears as I am leaned against the wall, vomiting a second and a third time, sprinkling the rough asphalt with blood and food, mixed to the pathetic mass that resembles my life.  
Hands belonging to Chris - as I shall learn later - pull me up, dumping me into the car and chauffeur me to my apartment. The bar owner must have probably called the police about the brawl.

The next morning I'm summoned into Fowler's office, the how many time this months I can't remember. Stopped counting a long time ago. Stopped caring.  
The lecture, the tirade, warning words threatening me with my suspension echo in my head, a hollow, dull sound that doesn't reach my conscience anymore.  
I endure them, eyes downcast, arms crossed, though not in the insubordinate way I was known for in the past. No, this characteristic vanished a long time ago. Instead I press my crossed arms to my ribcage, _into_ my ribcage, hard, too hard, it hurts, but it doesn't even come close to the pain inside me and if I press hard enough, maybe there is a chance I can squeeze out the throbbing pain in my heart.  
Maybe then I can stop yearning for something belonging to the past, something that will never be again.

My voice answers Fowler's questions, but it sounds dull, monotone.  
My eyes look up as I was ordered to, but the expression in them remains empty.  
My mouth promises it will never happen again, but my head knows I'm going to break that promise in the next few hours.  
My body stands up, leaves the office and I stand beside it, watching the man who looks so similar but became a stranger to me.

I feel Anderson's glance on me, burning in my profile, observing that picture of misery I represent and it emits a furious fire inside me, I'm close to scream at him or just collapse. Looking up abruptly, meeting his glance, I expect a warning, scolding expression in his eyes, but there is just an empathic sparkle in them, an understanding expression on his face, a sad look under those grey strands of hair falling in his face and I finally get it, I understand. Anderson isn't doing any better than me.  
You left a deep, dark hole nobody can fill.  
I break the eye contact, can't stand the pity, sadness, the empathy in them anymore and rush toward the toilets, keeping back the tears forming in my eyes as best as I can, trying to be strong. But how can I be, when I'm feeling torn inside?  
I close the bathroom stall with a heavy bang behind me and, not a second later, break out in tears.

***

My mind searches for ways to forget you, but neither heart nor body works in unison with me. I no longer function as a whole, I'm torn apart in little pieces that contradict each other, fight against each other, playing tug war inside me, relentlessly and incessantly, tearing me apart piece by little piece and I wonder if eventually there will be nothing more left of me.  
I wonder if that may be for the best.

My mind searches for ways to forget you, to put you behind me, let you go, look forward - still I'm trapped inside a endless circle full of pain, paralyzing and enslaving me.

My heart searches for way to remain faithful to you, not to forget you, protect the memories of you, not tainting them - and still I'm finding myself here again, sprawled out on the desk, wantonly and naked, holding out in the darkness of the night while the body over me presses itself against me, because:

My body searches for ways to feel close to you, to feel you against me, a final time, only once again, a last time - but I keep saying that to myself for the last few months and every "last time" always turns to a "second last time".

My mind and heart are repulsed by me, disgusted that I let my body take the lead, that they lose the tug war over and over again, but it isn't even surprising anymore. They are both powerless, my mind most of the times paralyzed by the alcohol and my heart not whole anymore, because a way too large, important part lays buried with you.

What remains is my body, who might be mine, but isn't a part _of_ me anymore. It developed a life of its own, searches and finds ways to outsmart mind and heart, to win the upper hand, indulge in the desire.  
Ways to surrender to the dangerous fantasy it could be your lips I taste on my own, your hands wandering over my heated skin, your tongue I push myself into in a rush of lust, drawing a helpless pant from my lips.  
Your voice whispering softly in my ear. Gentle vanities making my heart beating faster. Geniune compliments making me blush. And sensual promises pulling a anticipating moan from me.  
I talk myself into believing it is your voice, lose myself in the illusion to hear you whisper one last time, a feather-light breath brushing against my ear shell, caressing my sensitive skin and giving me goosebumps.

 _You are beautiful_ , you breathe awe-struck, pushing an unruly strand of hair out of my face.  
_I want you_ , you murmur, a passionate, desiring kiss to my lips while you're on me, above me and then in me and I can't think straight anymore, because you fill me so well, every little brain cell is taken in by you and I'm overwhelmed how 'fullfilled' you make me feel, as if only you can complete me, awake that burning fire of desire, love and lust in me, bring me to the edge of ecstasy, only to hold me in your strong arms, when I finally give my whole self to you.

 _I can't live without you_ , I want to scream, but my mouth stays quiet, closed, not daring to break the continually silence that had laid itself over the office complex.  
I want to stretch out my arms, hold you with my hands, frightened the illusion could end too soon. But I know too well that he doesn't like it, that he only would pin my wrists roughly back down to the surface, so I keep them above my head on the desk, useless.

I make do with what he offers me, content myself with the harsh, mechanical touches while I keep my eyes closed, recalling your voice in my head, trying desperately to reconstruct situations, render scraps of conversations, remembering them, playing them over in my thoughts.

 _I can't keep my eyes off of you._  
_Do you know what you make me feel?_  
_I never would have thought it possible to feel such strong emotions for someone._  
_You're the most important person for me, the best thing that had happened to me._  
_I … love you_ , and I choke, tears welling in my eyes, because it's not those three words suddenly cutting through the silence, not your voice brushing against my ear, no matter how identical it sounds. These are his words, not yours.

"Turn around now."

Somewhere buried under the fleshly lust and the desperate search for something to ease the pain - and if only briefly - both my mind and heart scream at me, commanding me to end this, refusing cooperation, begging me, just to finally watch in horror and bewilderment as my body - a slave to the darkly murmured words - pulls itself up from the desk, turning around, hesitantly placing the hands on it just to be pushed flat against it by a firm hand on my shoulder blades.  
My heated upper body meets the cold desk surface, the shiver covering my skin though is caused by the clicking sound of a belt buckle being opened and the hand holding my head in position, playing with my hair for a fleeting second, almost softly.  
It reminds me of you. Of your hand stroking through my hair, of the feather-light touches of your fingers, wandering over my neck, touching my shoulder blades, continuing the trail further down over my back, working their way toward their destination, gentle and without hurry, setting the sweaty, flushed skin underneath their fingertips on fire, caressing, teasing.

A brief moment I'm inclined to plead. Plead for him to reconstruct, simulate this scene, to do me this one favor, but the fingers disappear from my hair and I understand that he only wanted to make sure I keep my head down, know my place. The fingers aren't caressing over my neck or my back and I know, he does it with gruel intention. He knows what my body pines after, who I'm really pining after and he knows it isn't him.  
Therefore he only touches me if necessary and then so … different to your touches, that it's hard for me to keep up the fantasy of you. He puts me in chains and mercilessly drags me back into the reality I don't want to be a part of since you are not here anymore.

His long fingers doing a good, but callous job, preparing me for what will come inevitably.

The distraught protest my heart utters out from a dark corner inside me is nothing more than a shaking, weak whisper by now, my mind already silenced, gone, enslaved by the fingers finding that one spot inside me that makes me see stars, causes me to moan and my body to press reflexively towards them, begging and submissive and the dark, taunting laugh is so far away from your warm one. It's just another painful stab to my heart.  
It begs me to stop this, but drowns between the heavy pants, the moans my body utters out without my permission.  
It doesn't matter anymore, my heart is silenced as was my mind before when he retreats his fingers and shifts closer to me. He is now behind me, above me and then I feel him inside me. I'm breathing through clenched teeth, biting my lower lip, feeling the typical pain of being stretched and filled down there, though it can't even begin to compete with the pain in my heart.  
Because with every time, every desperate attempt to think of you while I'm letting myself be fucked by him there is a small, a tiny little piece of you breaking away and forever vanishing from my memory.

By now my mind and heart are buried with you, giving my body the upper hand, which writhes longingly, panting, moaning, shaking, pushing back against those hard thrusts, a hollow shell, obediently submitted to the lust, a slave of desire, of wishing to feel close to you one last time.

My breath becomes shallower, my legs falter while my hands cling to the edge of the table in search of support. Albeit his movements seem mechanical, almost indifferent, they don't miss their purpose. He knows what he is doing and I shut my eyes close in an attempt to stop those needy moans to leave my mouth, trying to think about you, imagining it's you who's fucking me, your hands on my hips, your thrusts getting me dangerously close to the edge and it works for a moment, nearly gives me the rest, but then he stops abruptly and I hate myself for the broken whimper crawling out of my throat.

A hand found its way into my hair, grabbing a few strands and pulling my head harshly to the side. I feel himself bending over me, his face next to mine, but I keep my eyes closed in defiance, not willing to see the reality. Not willing to give you up.

"Look at me."

I shake my head, at least as best as the hard grip in my hair allows me to, pressing my eyes even closer if that's possible.  
Not this. Everything but not this. Everything else I can handle, the too dark, condescending voice, the too rough grip in my hair, on my hips, the too harsh and meaningless way his body moves against mine.  
All that my brain can block out with effort, exchange it with memories of you.  
Those eyes though, fuck, not those eyes.

He's not willing to let my disobedience pass that easy and I swallow dry, whimper helpless as he coats my neck with his lips, immediately finding the sensitive spot there and sucking along there, as he moves provocatively inside me, bringing me to my knees with torturous slow thrusts, coaxing a pleading "Please" out of me.

He doesn't care. He keeps up that slow rhythm, which arouses but leaves me frustrated, which is just not quite enough and then he hits that particular spot in me and I loose the fight against my body, against the pleasure and open my eyes with a tormented pant. No second later he picks up his previous pace with that fucking pretentious smirk on his lips, his blue eyes cold and way too different to your warm, brown ones. He shatters every possibility to keep my illusion up, to flee from the reality of this situation.  
He makes me feel like a fucking traitor, a filthy, shitty traitor, as my body reaches its limit after three calculated and fast thrusts and with a last brokenly whispered "Connor" I cum, forced to look into his eyes by a firm hand, a heartless laugh slipping past his lips, pouring down on me like ice-cold rain and making me shiver despite how hot my body feels.

"Connor?" The voice is a little breathless, but doesn't lose its coldness at all. His thrusts are too intense now or I'm too sensitive and I want to shift away, but he pins me down, merciless, holding me in place, "Connor is in android heaven and watches how you let yourself …", a rugged pant, a deep thrust, "be fucked …" a last thrust into me, the voice cracking a bit "by his superior version."  
And with a last, raw pant I feel him cum inside me, feel how he immediately pulls out after a short moment of rest, how the artificial cum slowly drips out of me, down my thighs and I try to move, feeling strangely vulnerable, pushing myself up with effort, still slightly bend over the table, breathless and shaking. My eyes are downcast, onto the table in front of me, focused on the white evidence of my betrayal spread widely over the desk surface.  
I feel wrong in my own body, paralyzed, as if I am only a spectator, watching myself from the distance.

Just faintly I notice the clicking of the belt buckle, the rustling of clothes being pulled on and adjusted again, just vaguely I hear his arrogant voice: "Make sure to wipe your cum off my desk. I don't want to be reminded of this pitiful meeting when I'm entering the office tomorrow."

If those words were aimed to hurt me, they miss their purpose entirely for I remain a stranger in my own body, observing from the distance how he moves away, leaving the office complex, paying no further attention toward me.  
I'm watching myself, how I sink powerless to the ground, how my body gives up the control, exhausted and satisfied, how the mind comes back to life again, heaping accusations on me, scolding me, insulting me, throwing tirades at me, but this too passes me by like nothing, because:

My heart remains silent this time, blind and broken in the darkness, desperately in search of the only light it has ever known: You.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short information/background to this idea:  
> Gavin and Connor are in a relationship after the revolution, until Connor is irreparably damaged in a mission and dies.  
> Gavin is left behind with the pain and grief and doesn't know how to handle it, so finally he gets involved in a rather … sporadic sex-relationship with Nines, trying to see Connor in him, trying to recreate the feeling of being with Connor one last time - which is without success and only pulls him down in an even darker hole of pain.  
> RK900 is just the personification of evil in this OS (like I could imagine him to be if he stays a machine … or becomes an evil deviant).
> 
> Not sure, if all that could be read out of the OS, but I didn't want to put this in the summary to let the story evolve on its own somehow.
> 
> Hope you liked it nonetheless and see you next time.

**Author's Note:**

> My first Connor/RK900, but I'm just starting to be a huge fan of them somehow. Tell me how you liked it :)


End file.
